


Meteor Showers Bring Blooming Flowers

by PsychicBananaSplit



Series: There's Nothing Like a Romance in a Zombie Apocalypse [2]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Absent Parents, Abuse, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Child Abandonment, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Cold Weather, Crying, Denial of Feelings, Depression, Dissociation, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Eating Disorders, First Kiss, Fishing, Good Babysitter Steve Harrington, Good Person Steve Harrington, Holding Hands, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Insomnia, Mild Sexual Content, Multi, Panic Attacks, Parental Steve Harrington, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Drug Addiction, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Abuse, Shotgunning, Showers, Slow Burn, Steve Harrington Has Bad Parents, Steve Harrington-centric, Therapy, Writing, bitches we there, i planned on making this slower burn but that didn't happen, it exists now, it happened, lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2020-12-24 05:29:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21094172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PsychicBananaSplit/pseuds/PsychicBananaSplit
Summary: Steve's past haunts him with every step that he takes. Each and every footprint he left behind echoes with all of the unanswered wishes that he asked every year."Harrington, what makes you think that I don't want to be with you?"Well, maybe someone listened to one wish.





	1. Cold

**Author's Note:**

> oh, there i go again, projecting onto characters!  
i am so excited for this new book, you guys have no idea. i have so many things planned. including the following: angst, abuse and alcoholism. the three a's of any fanfiction relating to billy hargrove and steve harrington. lol.  
also, more slow burn.  
hope you don't leave before they finally get together!

He never gave the jacket back.

Steve’s not so sure that Billy even noticed; he does have other jackets, and it was nearing towards spring anyway. 

This night is one of the many that he’s hugged it until he fell asleep. It smells just like him, spicy cologne and smoke, dark chocolate and something sour. Apples? 

It’s intoxicating. Hypnotizing. Better than drugs. 

Well, anything is better than drugs right about now. 

The last four years of his life are a little fuzzy. Pills and booze and flashing lights. Constant,  _ constant  _ spacing out in class. Crowded lunch tables. Girls climbing all over him; fist fights over them. He was either hungover or high, and he doesn’t think the teachers wanted to mention anything because  _ who would they tell?  _ His  _ parents?  _

_ Ha.  _

His father told him to start going to therapy. He was sixteen, and sitting on the floor, drowning in his own piss and vomit and going through a bad withdrawal and calling his dad even though he had a business meeting in France.  _ I know this excellent doctor,  _ he said,  _ Dr. Garret. You should see him, Steven. Actually, I’ll call him right now; hold on for a quick second. _

Steve might’ve been failing his classes, but he isn’t stupid. He knew that he just wanted to pay a person to act as  _ dad for a day  _ because he was  _ never around.  _

Not that he hates his parents. No, not that. It’s just when both do come at the same time (very rarely happens) and they decide to take him to a fancy restaurant, they can’t even look at him. His father is too busy flirting with the waitress and his mother is too busy looking down at the bottom of her sixth glass of wine. 

The last time he saw his parents, he was high. It was obvious. But all his father asked was,  _ how’s therapy coming along? Well, I hope? _

Steve just shrugged and poked at his fifty-dollar steak, long since cold.

Ah, but Steve knows that it does no good to dwell on the past. 

He closes his eyes. Leans his forehead back into the jacket. The lingering coldness of winter and his father’s icy stare shivers away from the blooming of roses in Steve’s chest. 

Steve is still cold, even a month and a half after the snow melted. 

When he wakes up, he first blinks at the yellow light streaming through the curtains. It seemed like, after the dreary winter, the whole world exploded in color.

His whole body is comfortably warm; he doesn’t want to get up out of it. But he does. He groans softly as his achy limbs crawl out from under the blankets and into the moderately chilly air. He doesn’t look in the mirror, knowing that all he would see is the same thing as yesterday morning; tired, sunken eyes, ribs pointing out of his stomach, weak, shaky hands. 

It’s springtime; maybe they’ll have more food this year. 

It’s amazing, really. How fast they got used to this life. Hunting for food instead of just going to the grocery store. Not having enough when they used to have everything.

It’s a silly thought, really. That he expected nothing to change. 

Steve pulls on a shirt and jeans, socks, shoes, then a hoodie. It’s the same routine every day.

After smoothing it out, he hangs Billy’s jacket in his closet and promptly closes it.

Everyone’s at the table for breakfast, which isn’t a sight that Steve has seen except for the-

The beginning.

The day after the initial virus break; where everyone was here, terrified out of their minds.

And now they’re doing better.

Billy sits next to him as he slowly eats. The celebratory pancakes are like flavorless sludge sliding down his throat, and he fights a gag, reaching his hand out to pull Bill’s hand down from the table. 

He looks a bit confused, but he lowers his arm anyway, and Steve latches onto his hand. 

There isn’t any apparent reason why. He just does. And Billy doesn’t seem to mind. 

_ “Who are you?” _

Kids; that’s what they are. Only kids. Steve is so  _ shocked  _ that they’ve survived this long yet.

He straightens himself and clears his throat.  _ “I’m Steve. Are your parents anywhere?” _

The kid puffs out his chest, trying to act tough; the other smacks his shoulder.  _ “If we knew where our parents were, we would be with them.”  _ The tough kid wilted, and the other held out a hand.  _ “The name’s Lucas. Sinclair. This is Dustin. We’re trying to find our friends; Mike Wheeler and Will Byers. Ever heard of ‘em?” _

The last names.  _ Nancy. And Jonathan. _

_ “Yeah, I know their older siblings. Nancy and Jonathan, right?” _

_ “Yeah.” _

Steve shrugged and swung his bat onto his shoulders.  _ “Then let’s go getum, kid.” _

And that’s how he found himself a full-time job as a babysitter.

It’s not really that taxing of a job. He enjoys it. The kids are funny and impressionable. Dustin especially- Steve likes to admit that he’s his favorite. And he’s  _ allowed  _ to have favorites because they aren’t  _ his  _ kids. 

No, it’s nice to have something to take his mind off of things.  _ Things.  _

On an early April morning, Steve catches Billy smoking on the porch. Steve feels inclined to join him, he  _ shouldn’t.  _ He clutches at his own chest and shivers. “How are you doing, man?”

Billy huffs and closes his eyes. “Well enough,” he gives him a suspicious look. “You don’t look so good yourself, Steve.”

They’re on a first name basis now. It feels  _ great.  _ All things with Billy do. 

Steve manages to chatter out a  _ “I’m f-f-f-f-fine”  _ before Billy says that he needs to go inside. He closes the door behind him.

“What’s up with you? You’ve been shivering and cold and whatever for a while.” Billy looks genuinely concerned, but Steve rolls his eyes and laughs it off.

“I-it’s-s f-fine, B-B-Billy. R-really. I’m j-just not a c-c-cold type o-of-f p-p-person.”

Billy doesn’t really believe him. That’s okay.

Nobody really believed him  _ then  _ either.

The first rain comes a week later, and it’s absolute  _ hell  _ for Steve.

The day goes like this: first of all, when he takes his once-a-day, ten minute shower (ten minutes is a stretch-more like five) a clump of his hair  _ falls out  _ when he’s scrubbing the shampoo in. He skips breakfast, even if he wasn’t hungry, it wakes him up to eat; and he’s  _ cold. _

Like,  _ winter cold.  _

He had never been so cold in his  _ life  _ cold. 

And this day was one of  _ those days.  _ The days where he just wants to sleep or drink or get high when, clearly, he  _ can’t  _ anymore.

And Steve  _ hates it.  _ Hates that he still needs pills, hates that he still needs a therapist, hates that he has problems because that meant that his dad was  _ right.  _

_ Oh, he was at his most infuriating when he was right.  _

He  _ refuses  _ to say that he needs help because he  _ doesn’t. _

_ He really doesn’t. _

He really doesn’t. Does he?

Steve’s fingers itch for a cigarette. 

He’s lucky that Dr. Garret doesn’t smoke, or else he might’ve stolen one from him.

_ “How was your week, Steve?”  _ He asks; as if he doesn’t already know the answer.  _ “Have you been taking your medication?” _

Steve debates whether he should lie. He says  _ yeah, I have. _

_ “Have you been writing in your journal?” _

Steve says  _ yes  _ again. Dr. Garret peers over his glasses. 

_ “Let me see it.” _

He did write in it. Over the course of a week he only filled both sides of one page, though. 

He doesn’t really write much, but when he does it’s in class. English is an endless purgatory for him- he can’t use proper  _ grammar,  _ he didn’t spell a  _ word  _ right, there’s a  _ run-on sentence;  _ there’s too many things that he does wrong in writing things. 

So he just doesn’t. 

Dr. Garret skims over the measly bit that was in the journal and closes it when he’s done, taking his glasses off.  _ “Most of my patients fill out half a page, if not less, in their first week. This was… a lot more than I expected from you, Steven. Thank you, for deciding to share this with me.” _

Steve feels  _ good. “Call me Steve.” _

_ “In that case, call me Tom.” _

Steve likes to go on walks with Jonathan. In the woods, on the streets, in fields. It’s a peaceful activity. Even though he can feel Jonathan’s eyes on him for minutes on end, and it gets eerie when the roads are too quiet and Steve’s thoughts get the better of him.

But Jonathan never said anything about him trailing behind. Steve thinks that he likes the company. 

_ “Nobody could ever be my friend.” _

_ “Why’s that?” _

_ “I dunno. I’m an asshole. I’m- I forget everything because of- that. This. People think I’m crazy.” _

Dr. Garret didn’t respond. Only wrote something down and moved on. Steve finds a paperweight- a goldfish, catching the light and gleaming in all directions across the paper- and stares at it.  _ Hard. _

_ “You know what I think, Steve? I think that you avoid meaningful relationships, friendships too, because you’re afraid they’ll reject you. While at the same time, you crave a deep connection with somebody.” _

And that hits  _ so hard  _ into Steve’s gut. He wants to  _ scream.  _

But he keeps his cool and doesn’t do anything. Spacing out.  _ Not wanting to be there. _

_ “I… think this may be an effect of your upbringing.” _

That’s the first time he brings up his  _ personal life.  _ He feels his lip quivering, and tears come slowly to his eyes, but he keeps staring at the  _ goddamn goldfish.  _

Dr. Garret is cautious with his next words.  _ “And… possibly… another event in your life. Something traumatic.” _

There it is.

_ “Physical, mental, emotional… or sexual abuse.” _

Steve isn’t in his own body; he’s floating, but he feels the tear falling down his face before he really even knows that Dr. Garret is still talking.

_ “An event in your life that you’ve repressed, pushed down. Your… unhealthy coping mechanisms are proof of that enough.”  _

He can’t get back into his own body. He’s still floating.

But Steve carefully takes his eyes away from the paperweight and meets Dr. Garret’s eyes.

_ “How do you know?” _


	2. River

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve wants. The hunters go fishing. A story is half-told.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo guys i'm sorry to keep you waiting; it's been a long couple of months.   
i've been jumping around from idea to idea so fast, and this is all kinda a mishmash of what i wanted -- it's a mess lol.  
also i see little fragments of my own relationship god help me-

It feels silly. Foolish. Like a cliche. Like a  _ made up story. Like a lie. _

All he really remembers that night is going to bed. Turning off the light. Someone coming into his room.

And then, he wakes up with fingerprints embedded into his neck, the weight of a hand on his mouth to keep him  _ quiet. _

Steve might’ve been failing his classes, _ but he isn’t stupid.  _ He knows who did it as soon as he went downstairs for breakfast. 

He saw him sitting at the table.

_ He saw the person who did it in his kitchen, at his table, in his house. _

He should’ve screamed. Instead, he sat down and let him touch him, grabbing his arm. Hugging Steve when he left. 

There was something disgusting and  _ sick  _ in his eyes. But that might’ve been his own disgusting and  _ sick  _ imagination.

Steve tried to tell his parents- he really did. He just said that  _ someone did it,  _ not  _ him.  _

And  _ no one believed him. _

He told Hopper- he thought, for a  _ second,  _ that he thought it was true. Apparently he was wrong. 

_ Hopper found him alone in his house- almost catatonic. He was sitting in the middle of blood and guts, the remainder of his friends. He can’t move, he can’t blink- can’t even fucking see. _

_ “Hey kid- Steve, yeah? Steve, hey, kid, listen; it’s okay. It’s alright kid. I found you, you’ve got help.” _

_ Yeah but it’s not gonna  _ fucking be okay!  _ Hopper! It’s not  _ fucking  _ okay, okay? Not okay. _

_ He nods stiffly and chokes on the lump in his throat. Hopper wraps his arms around his shaking body and hugs him for the first and the last time- despite the blood and despite the guts and despite the fact that Steve has snot and tears running down his entire face, he doesn’t  _ care.  _ In the good way, though.  _

_ Like, he cares so much that he doesn’t. _

_ You know? _

_ Hopper hug him and it isn’t okay but he makes it seem okay for the few minutes that they hold their position. Those few moments, and Steve started to breathe. Those few moments, and he scraped up all the courage he had and sprinted out of his house with the cop and into his car, blaring lights and blaring sirens and all. It was so  _ loud-  _ people were yelling, people were dying, dying people were  _ screaming.

_ He covered his ears and wished for it all to go away. _

Nowadays, he’s living in the moment. Staying in the present. Trying not to let his mind wander-  _ thinking doesn’t do him much good-  _ and  _ paying attention.  _ Steve doesn’t want to be caught off guard if any of them; the kids, Hopper, Joyce, everyone, are in a vulnerable situation.

He’s  _ important.  _

It’s a good feeling. To be important. 

It’s springtime. The snow and ice have melted, and Hopper says it’s time to go fishing.

“Sit around all day, waiting for a fuckin’  _ fish?  _ Nah, no thanks, chief.” Robin props her feet on the table and leans back in her chair casually. Nancy nods, and Steve is inclined to agree. 

Hopper looks rather unamused. “You’re our best hunting team.”

“We’re your  _ only  _ hunting team, Hop.”

“Yeah, yeah, no need to have an attitude with me, just,” he sighed and ran his hand down his face. “I know it’s boring, but we need food, believe it or not. You won’t be fishing all the time.”

Steve wasn’t that excited either. A few hours, at most, in silence with only his thoughts? Not good.

Nancy sighed and gave in. “Guess it wouldn’t hurt.”

So they’re sitting on the bank, rusty fishing poles in hand.

Nothing but the sound of the river gurgling.

The birds singing.

The leaves in the wind.

_ His uncle used to take him fishing. _

It was rural Indiana- who  _ hadn’t  _ gone fishing with their dad or uncle or granddad?

Steve was eight. He was standing by the water. He had to roll his pants up to keep them from getting dirty.

His uncle kept  _ staring at him. _

Steve turned around once and caught him in the act. He had the strangest look on his face. 

Almost,  _ concentration. _

Now, Steve knows that look. He recognizes the look as something that you shouldn’t be thinking of a  _ child,  _ that’s for sure.

The sky had been blue. The sun was up. 

_ He’s staring at you. You need to tell somebody. _

Robin yelled out that she felt a tugging from her fishing rod. Steve blinked out of his head.

It’s the middle of May, and Steve is still skinny and cold. He’s still losing his hair, and he can’t lift anything heavier than a fork anymore.

He’s  _ scared. _

His body is weak but he doesn’t have an appetite. 

He doesn’t know what’s  _ wrong.  _

_ He needs his meds. Now. _

At least he knows  _ something  _ is wrong. 

_ Something is wrong and he doesn’t know what and that’s scary. Fucking terrifying.  _

He finds ways to distract himself. 

Consciously, Steve knows that it’s unhealthy to use Billy as a distraction from his internal conflict. Rationally, he knows that it’s a disgusting,  _ sick  _ thing to do. He  _ knows this. _

He  _ can’t help it. _

It’s eleven thirty at night. He couldn’t sleep. And now he  _ really  _ can’t sleep. His mind is just filled with  _ Billy Billy Billy Billy Billy  _ and it’s really  _ hot  _ in that room, he thinks that he’s never been that  _ hot  _ before. 

His legs are so sensitive; the slightest touch of the sheets on his thighs gets him hard. His hands are shaking, his neck spasms from nerves. He keeps squirming, trying to find a comfortable position to sleep in but every time any part of his body brushes against  _ anything  _ he has to bite his lip to stop his moan halfway.

He looks at the jacket in his closet and  _ wants. _

But also,  _ no. _

_ But yes. _

He musters enough strength to get out of bed to grab the jacket and when he gets there he buries his face in it, sniffing deeply and  _ god,  _ he has to lean against the wall for support.

It’s gonna be a long night.

He shouldn’t like sex as much as he does. He’s read stories on people who have gone through what he did (granted, they all were women in their teens) and they never trust people with their bodies again. 

There’s a whole lot more wrong with him than what he knows is wrong with him. 

Though, that was common knowledge.

He was  _ taken.  _ He was  _ defiled.  _ He was  _ trashed  _ and left for  _ dead-  _

But he still wants Billy.


	3. Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve wants. He reflects on the outcome. Billy makes a move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter, but i thought you guys deserved something after like-  
half a year lmao  
school's been shit, and i'm going through a bit of a rough period. scratch that, fucking awful time in my life. i'm writing more poetry than fanfic, i just lost motivation for a while. i'm working to get it back.  
i also think i'm a witch.  
anyway, enjoy the chap, peace!

Steve is, sort of lucky that his parents were in another country when the apocalypse sprung up on the world. 

He remembers, would never forget the look on Nancy’s face when she sees her own parents. The look on Mike’s. The look on Joyce’s when Bob died in front of them.

It was all so much to look at, he doesn’t think he can handle it himself.

Like, yeah, he saw his friends get torn up. That’s nothing compared to your parents, though, right? Like, yeah they were assholes sometimes but he wouldn’t have been able to function if he saw them like that. No, not that -- he would be dead if he saw his parents being torn in half, blood spilling, eyes popping out of their sockets, their screams-

He would be dead and gone if he saw that.

Every day for breakfast, Steve and Billy sit next to each other and hold hands. They don’t say much to each other anymore, but those unspoken words are the only ones that need to be said. 

_ I trust you. _

_ It’s okay. _

_ It’s gonna be okay. _

Steve isn’t sure what they are anymore. Not enemies, maybe friends. Not more than friends. Not less than anything else that there is.

He isn’t really content with this. He wants something else. He wants something  _ more.  _

Maybe he’s greedy. He doesn’t care. 

He needs the closeness. He needs touch, god, he’s so  _ touch-starved  _ it’s  _ crazy.  _ He needs Billy holding his hand, he needs Billy hugging him, he needs his body beside him, he needs his hand on his thigh on his-

_ Fuck, not that. _

He doesn’t want to ruin this. Not yet. 

_ Not ever. _

It’s around one in the morning and it smells like sex. Steve can’t sleep, so he tugs on a pair of sweatpants and Billy’s jacket, opening the door and looking around for anyone. 

It’s tranquil, almost melancholic outside. Summer nights are cool and misty, fireflies dance around the forest, cicadas and crickets sing in place of the birds. The sky was dark, but full of stars. The trees were in the echo of the light, shadows looming over the tiny house; and there he was, leaning on the railing of the porch, staring out into the black abyss of night.

“You like the jacket?”

Steve jumped and clutched his chest.  _ “Jesus Christ,”  _ he hissed, glaring at Billy as he smirked. “Have you ever learned  _ not  _ to sneak up on people?”

Billy shrugged. “Thought you heard me walking.”

Steve narrowed his eyes.

“You haven’t answered the question.” He slid over beside Steve, putting a careful hand on his arm and giving a tantalizing smile, leaning in close to his ear. “Did you like the jacket, Harrington?” 

_ He could feel his breath on the shell of his ear. _

Steve almost couldn’t breathe, himself.

He took a shuddering gasp. “Yeah. Yeah I, I love it.”

He glanced; in the corner of his eye he saw Billy’s own cloud over. He could feel Billy’s pulse from the hand on his arm, and his other ghosting across his hips. 

_ He can feel everything on his legs. _

_ Down to the very thread. _

_ God, Billy, touch me kiss me fuck me- _

He steps back, taking his hands away, leaving Steve frozen and gasping for air.

The bastard  _ smiles.  _ “Go to sleep, Harrington. You’re gonna need it.” Billy fucking winks and slinks into the house.

Steve scoffs and shakes his head when his thoughts are gathered enough. 

_ There’s no way he’s gonna fucking sleep. _

Steve doesn’t think about Nancy much, nowadays.

He doesn’t even remember them dating. Well, most of it. He was drugged up or high, he can’t remember their first kiss, can’t remember their first time, can’t remember  _ anything.  _

He doesn’t want to do that with Billy.

_ He doesn’t want to ruin it with Billy. _

All of a sudden, May’s come and gone, and June rolls around. The humid weather gets to everyone- Nancy and Robin fight over found tank-tops, the kids complain about Hopper going around shirtless, and Jonathan is barely in the house, taking millions of pictures and posting them along the walls. 

Steve wears a sweater and stays inside with Nancy and Robin, staring out the window at the kids.

Or, rather, Billy.

He stood on the porch, an aloof and quiet statue, watching the teens like a hawk. 

He took his shirt off, and, holy  _ fuck, was he hot. _

Well, Steve already knew that. 


	4. Hot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> steve gets high.

“Echo!”  _ Echo, echo, echo. _

The Starcourt Mall was hollow and empty, shadows draping themselves over walls like one big blackout curtain. The lobby seemed more like a ballroom in a haunted mansion today than it was last week. The skylights were dirty and broken, light and ivy pouring out of a hole that cracked into it some time ago. 

Steve would be heartbroken, if he wasn’t so ticked off but this godforsaken  _ zombie. _

Billy ran a hand down his face in exasperation and pointed to it. “Can’t you shoot the damn thing, you know, to make it  _ stop?” _

He stared at the legless beast, nodding its head into the wall, with a  _ thump, thump, thump.  _

Steve turned around. “You don’t think I’ve tried that, asshole?” He snarked back. There wasn’t enough heat in his words to hurt.

He shot at the zombie once- twice- three times, the ringing of the bullets waving in the empty space, and there was a comical silence before it started to rock back and forth again.

Billy threw his hands in the air and snarled. “Let’s just go, there’s nothing here anyway.”

Steve has a crippling addiction.

Doesn’t stop him from tapping into it once in a while.

Before he left his house for good-  _ for good,  _ meaning when the apocalypse broke out- he took his stash with him. His lifeline. His weakness. 

Everything, in this shoebox. With barely anything in it. Just a few emptied Altoids tins to make way for pills and weed.

It’s one of his largest secrets to date.

_ It’s one of those days. _

_ i’m too fuckin’ sober to deal with this shit _

With a shaky, bone-thin wrist, his hand closes around one of the tins and shakes.  _ Not pills. Good.  _ He doesn’t want to get totally fucked.

Just enough to take the edge off.

The only warmth left in his body is the pool of smoke before he exhales it out. Goosebumps form on his arms, the hair at the nape of his neck stand. He’s hot and cold at the same time, and his mind feels like it’s on the fucking  _ moon.  _

_ Just taking the edge off. Yeah, right. _

Everything is slow and fast. Too dark and too bright. Too much, too little. Not enough.

The blunt glows like a beacon between his spindly fingers.  _ He hates how skinny he is.  _ He can’t look good.  _ He looks sick.  _ He is sick.

He’s hot and cold at the same time, and he’s floating.

He’s underwater. 

Someone knocks at the door and Steve glances at the time.

It’s  _ late. _

Or, early, rather.

He only knows one person who would be awake at this hour, and would want to talk to him.

“Door’s open.”

The door cracks open, but Steve doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t need to see to know the way he walks, how it sounds. How his heartbeat is so loud when they’re together. Maybe it’s the drugs.

Billy takes a deep breath and closes the door behind him. 

“How’d you know I was awake, Hargrove?”

He shrugged. “Guessed.”

Steve nods. 

The air is heavy. 

He tugs at the sleeve of his sweatshirt and peers at Billy. “You wanna join?”

His breathing halts.

“Sure.”

He walks over to sit on the mattress and Steve tries not to think about how it’s like sharing a kiss when he lends the blunt to Billy, tries not to let his hand linger on his knuckles, tries not to feel his body so close to his own.

He fails.

The smoke spills out of Billy’s lips like liquid, smooth, too fucking  _ sensual.  _ He’s too fucking sexy without even trying it’s-

_ Fuck. _

He returns the blunt and Steve has to try extra hard not to let it slip from his fingers. There’s TV static in his lips, his legs. Cotton fills his ears. His hands are barely even solid, cold, liquid nitrogen.

He’s not even thinking of the idea before he voices it out.

“Have you ever tried shotgunning?”

Billy froze.

“No.”

_ Fuck. _

_ Shit. _

Steve shifts so he’s facing him- 

Billy does the same.

_ Fucking shit. I can’t breathe. _

The smoke feels constricting.

Steve looks down and feels the heat spreading from his stomach to his face. “I can show you.” He doesn’t know why he thinks Billy is gonna want to do this he’s not even  _ gay.  _

He lifts his head and meets Billy’s gaze and he-

_ His eyes have this look. _

It’s okay.

“Show me.”

_ Fuck. _

“Ok.”

Steve breathes, he closes his eyes and takes a few breaths before attempting to smoke because  _ holy shit  _ his heart is in his throat and he  _ can’t breathe yet.  _

There’s a moment where the time freezes.

Their eyes lock. “Do you want to do this?”

“Yes.”

And he

breathes

the high in so deep

he can feel it in his  _ bones. _

Steve slips a hand around the base of Billy’s skull and pulls him close, close,  _ close,  _ he can feel his eyes on him and he barely has any time to think before

their

lips

meet.

_ He’s never had a high like this in his entire life. _

Billy opens his mouth and leans into the kiss as Steve gasps out and he feels, he  _ feels.  _ The static is stronger than ever but the heat moved from his cheeks to his tongue and he can  _ taste Billy oh my god. _

Billy moves and tilts his head and his tongue traces Steve’s mouth and his own reaches forward and it’s so 

hot

he’s burning.

And he needs to pull himself back he  _ can’t. _

“I’m sorry I- I’m sorry.  _ Shit.  _ I’m sorry.”

Steve backs away and tries to breathe, tries to get past his  _ feelings.  _ He can’t. He  _ can’t. _

_ Billy doesn’t even like him back. _

“I’m sorry I shouldn’t have-” Steve shudders and shivers and the heat is gone, he’s cold, he takes another drag. “You don’t- I- I’m sorry. You’re not- you’re not like- you don’t- I’m sorry.”

And he has this- almost wounded look on his face. Billy looks  _ hurt.  _ Only slightly.

Not too much.

“Harrington, what makes you think I don’t want to be with you?”

_ What. _

Billy let out a wet chuckle. “I mean-  _ shit,  _ I’ve been dropping hints for the past fucking month,  _ god,  _ you’re fucking  _ clueless,  _ you know that?”

Steve swallows and feels the lump in his throat fall to his chest. “I- what?”

He scoffs. “I  _ like  _ you, you fucking idiot.”

_ I like you, too _

He’s hot and cold at the same time, and he’s on cloud  _ fucking  _ nine.

Billy blinks and puts his hand to Steve’s neck, carefully.

“Do- do  _ you  _ want this?” he whispers.

_ He thinks this might be love. _

_ “Yes.” _


	5. Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they're close-   
and then they're not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter, i know- i couldn't think of anything else to write that wouldn't be the next one.  
someone in the comments basically foretold the events in this chap and i was like  
0_0  
well  
ok then  
but anyway here's more angst

Hawkins was quiet, tonight. 

Quiet only for them.

Ever since this- whatever  _ this  _ is- started, they’ve been

closer. 

They’re kissing. In Steve’s bed. It’s dark and he can’t see Billy’s face but-

He can feel his breath. His hands, his mouth, his tongue. On his lips. His cheek, his jaw, his neck. He can feel.

He can  _ feel.  _

_ steve spent his entire life trying to numb himself to- to everything. to his life itself.  _

_ it took a while. _

He took in an embarrassingly high-pitched gasp when Billy slipped a hand under the hem of his shirt. He felt the shape of a slow grin forming against his neck, teeth nipping a mark, the hand creeping upward. Steve pulled Billy’s head closer and hummed. 

And then he froze.

Billy’s hands stopped at the bump of his rib-cage-

the  _ bump.  _ The fucking  _ canyon of shame in his fucking chest is only just as great as it is _

fuck. 

The smile is gone and Billy takes himself back too fast but he slides the shirt farther up and Steve  _ hates himself for letting him see it.  _ He  _ hates  _ himself for not being able to fucking eat and he  _ hates  _ himself for not trying  _ harder. _

He turns to the side and covers his eyes. He doesn’t want to see the painfully confused and hurt look on Billy’s face. “I- Steve, I…”

And

he knows what he sees. Steve  _ knows.  _

Before, he saw  _ Steve.  _ He saw  _ right.  _ He saw fuckable, he saw lovable. Like it, this-  _ whatever this shit is-  _ could actually work.

and 

now

he

sees

wrong. 

Steve’s sick and now Billy sees it. Steve’s skinny, too skinny, ugly-  _ too ugly-  _ almost hollow. 

He’s almost hollow. He’s almost empty and he  _ hates it  _ he  _ hates it so fucking much.  _ He’s not even trying to starve himself, he doesn’t even understand what’s  _ wrong with him.  _ He tastes nothing but ashes and he can’t. He can’t. It hurts.  _ i’m too fucking sober to deal with this shit- _

“Steve.”

He winces behind the crook of his elbow. “Mhm.”

“This- this isn’t okay.”

“Oh, really. I was under the impression that being a fuckin’ skeleton was a trend.” He tried to aim for sarcastic but it struck short, falling on dull. 

Steve feels his hands melt away from his skin-  _ god he’s fucking repulsed-  _ “No you- you can’t joke about this. Don’t joke about this.”

He can feel the disappointment like a weight on his caved chest, on his collapsed lungs, his  _ hollow stomach. _

He pulled his shirt back down and sat up, his knees to his chin, curled in on himself like a child. He dares a glance-

Billy’s trying to breathe. 

“This isn’t okay.”

“I know.”

Billy opens his eyes. “Why are you doing this. To yourself. Steve, I- you can’t  _ do this.” _

_ he knows this. _

Steve lets out a quiet huff. “You don’t- you don’t think I know that?” The guilt grows in his throat like thorns and his voice catches, watery and dulled down, filed down into barely anything. Drowned in his shame. “I’m not- I’m not  _ trying  _ to do this to myself. I don’t know why I-  _ I don’t know.” _

_ i don’t know. i’m sorry. _

“I’m sorry.”

Billy shakes his head but doesn’t look at him. “It’s not your fault. It’s- it’s not your fault. Never.”

The tense energy doesn’t go away. It lingers- even as Steve lets his arms fall limp to his sides, and lies back down, facing the wall. Even as Billy does the same. Even as he falls asleep.

Steve can’t sleep. The fingertips brushing against the thin layer of skin against bone still burns, the cicadas are screeching outside, the sheets are pricking at his body, poking at it, prodding at it, his skin is  _ crawling.  _ He hugs himself tighter and is disgusted when he feels nothing but sharp edges, sharp enough to cut. Sharp enough to hurt.

His eyes are painfully open until the sun rises. He silently cries the entire night.

When Billy wakes up early to go back to his own bed, he leaves a kiss on Steve’s shoulder, too careful to the point of tedious.

When the door shuts, Steve shifts so he’s on the other side of the bed, and tries not to think about how Billy’s side is warmer than his own. He has to bite at his wrist to stifle his cries, and cries even harder when he feels the bare minimum of skin break between his teeth.

He’s sick.

He needs help.

Hawkins is quiet.

Quiet only for him.


	6. meteors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cold showers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it hurts lol

Things are… tense, to say the least. After what happened. 

Billy tries to act like it’s normal, but his smiles are stale and his hands always fade away after every touch, trickle away like water. They barely even talk anymore, even with the close quarters they’re living in. Steve wonders how exactly they can avoid each other so well. 

At some point, he realizes that he’ll have to make a move, because Billy’s just dancing around the subject. But what would he even say? What would  _ either  _ of them say?

There’s nothing left to say. 

And so, the thought of talking is shaken out of his mind, and another week of suspended silence passes by.

Steve suddenly doesn’t really want to be human anymore. 

If he were any other animal, he wouldn’t have a mind that would process the fucking  _ pain  _ that’s storming through his chest, the emotions that come swimming out every time he thinks of talking to Billy. He didn’t think it was possible to hurt this much. 

It’s a cold day. The sky is overcast with gray cotton ball clouds, and it’s looked like it’s gonna rain the entire day but it doesn’t.

Steve feels the cold porcelain through his socks and clicks the door shut, then looks out the window. The bathroom is small and monochrome, white on gray, white on lighter gray. Colorless and bland. There’s a vase of sad, wilted sunflowers on the sink, but that’s the only splash of color. The towels hang on the hooks like ghosts lurking by the walls. 

The mirror is smudgy, and makes him look more like a skeleton than he already does. Steve moves without really moving, and he sees his own hand in his reflection approach his face, the shock of cold against cold against even colder doesn’t make him shiver, like it should. The skin under his eyes is a deep, dark purple-blue, almost like a bruise but he knows better. His lips are cracked and dry, bleeding, numb. 

Every part of him is numb.

_ You don’t really love him. _

He sees them shape the words, he hears them being whispered, but it’s almost like it never happened. Like when something doesn’t make a sound and you wonder, did it really happen, or is it just… gone.

Faded to gray.

The shower spray is automatically cold, and he doesn’t bother changing it. And for a while, he just stands with his hand outstretched, feeling the water, like ice stabbing at his arm. He feels it grow so cold that it burns. So cold that he’s warm. So cold that it feels right.

He steps into the tub, his t-shirt and shorts that he never wears because he’s  _ too skinny  _ clinging to his bones. He sits. He feels the water singe his face, feels his hair dampen and watches it all go down the drain. The words echo in the shower.

_ You don’t really love him. _

The numbness of it all starts to hurt. A knot ties up his throat, and he tries to swallow but it comes back out as a sob. He closes his eyes and feels the tears coming and he doesn’t really want to but he cries. He sobs, heartfelt and painful. He cries so hard that the tears are so hot they’re cold, freezing, cries so hard that his entire body shakes. The air is frost, and every time he tries to breathe he can’t. 

Steve curls in a ball, his arms hugging his legs close, his head between them, trying to calm down. 

_ You can’t love him. _

It started raining. He hears the thunder outside, rumbling in the distance, the drops pattering against the glass a different sound from the roaring shower. 

Once he’s done crying, he’s exhausted.

He’s so fucking tired of all this shit, he just needs

to go to 

sleep. 

_ and everything crashes down _

_ in flashing, familiar-but-not colors _

_ the end of the world. _


End file.
